Wicked Game
by welshrose
Summary: Erik and Christine play a ‘wicked game’. Songfic.


Wicked Game

Erik and Christine play a 'wicked game'. Song-fic.

"Wicked Game" belongs to Chris Isaak. However, this story and conceptualisation belong to me.

_The world was on fire,  
No one could save me but you.  
Strange what desire will make foolish people do,  
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you.  
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you…_

She sang for him in the dark, on stage, in his head. 

_No, I don't want to fall in love…  
This love is only gonna break your heart.  
No, I don't want to fall in love…  
This love is only gonna break your heart.  
With you…  
With you…  
_

He knew Christine, trapped, lovely, beautiful Christine, could never love him. But she could love his voice--she already did. Erik sat down at the organ and began to compose. He put all his desire, passion, obsession into his opera. But what to call it?

_What a wicked game you play  
To make me feel this way  
What a wicked thing to do  
To let me dream of you _

Erik recalled _Don Giovanni _by Mozart. Mozart was the master of his craft. And in the stories Erik had read about the many incarnations of Don Juan, he was the most sexually powerful man to ever grace the world. Much like Cassanova, or any other lothario, recorded in the annals of history or not. Something Erik could never be.

_  
What a wicked thing to say.  
You never felt this way.  
What a wicked thing to do,  
To make me dream of you._

Erik remembered how Christine had called to him. She had called him her angel. "Angel, I hear you…". Yes, she heard him. She heard him loud and clear. Her pure, sweet, angelic voice, when it was not singing inside his head, reverberated inside his mind, calling to him. "Angel of Music…" He is her Angel of Music.

_And I don't wanna fall in love.  
This love is only gonna break your heart.  
And I don't want to fall in love.  
This love is only gonna break your heart.  
_

Erik moved from the Baroque organ to his desk where he kept all of his personal and impersonal effects. The opera "dollhouse" sat on the desk next to his half mask on its mannequin. A few things he stole from upstairs, like fabric to make his "Red Death" costume. He would shock them all when he arrived at the Masque. A few pieces of paper were scattered among a few pens and inkpots filled with red ink, as well as sealing wax and the infamous and instantly recognizable "Red Death" skull seal. Erik began to sketch Christine's features on a piece of paper to add to his already massive portfolio. He drew her face taking great care in making the shading just right to make her beauty look even more unearthly than it already was. Erik decided this particular piece should hang on the wall, near the bed. He thought of Christine, warm in her nightshirt under the bedclothes. "In dreams he came…". Tonight would be no exception.

_World was on fire,  
No one could save me but you.  
Strange what desire will make foolish people do,_

_I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you._

_I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you…_

Erik watched from the shadows in the ballet dormitories. He watched Christine's sleeping form on her bed next to Meg Giry's bed. Christine, even when asleep, looked very beautiful and innocent. And she had grown into a beautiful young woman, Erik was pleased to see. "Unfortunately," thought Erik, "I am not the only one." He knew that Raoul de Chagny came to her dressing room the night of her debut. But Erik put those thoughts far from his mind. "Christine…" said Erik softly, caressing both syllables like he so desperately wanted to feel her angelic, warm touch against his cold skin. Christine stirred and opened her eyes. "Who's there? Who is that?" whispered Christine into the darkness, looking scared. "It is I, your Angel," replied Erik still so very softly. "Sleep well, sweet seraph,". Christine relaxed at the sound of his voice, assumed it was a dream and she fell back into the softness of her pillow. Soon her breathing was at a slow, regular rhythm. Quietly, Erik took his leave and travelled the secret passage way back to his underground lair alone.

_No I don't wanna fall in love.  
This love is only gonna break your heart.  
No I don't wanna fall in love.  
This love is only gonna break your heart.  
With you…  
With you… _

Once downstairs, Erik set to putting a title for his work. He gently traced the letters DON JUAN TRIUMPHANT onto the front cover of the portfolio. __

Nobody loves no one…


End file.
